


Just Say...

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Consent, Drugs, Happy Ending, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Pre-Slash, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 10:58:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1508021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For reasons that do not need exploring at this juncture, Ray is under the influence of an aphrodisiac, and Fraser's trying to take care of him.  Like you do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Say...

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to luzula for beta.
> 
> Written for the Due South 20th Anniversary, and also as part of Desiree's Spring Cleaning 2014 project, in which I attempt to finish some of the WIPs languishing in my files.

“No,” says Fraser.

It’s a word he doesn’t often say, bald and unadorned. Not because it’s difficult: despite what some people think, Fraser is perfectly capable of refusing to do what he knows is wrong or even what he simply doesn’t want to do. It’s just that he usually chooses more diplomatic ways of expressing refusal. Sometimes, however, bluntness is the most effective tool.

It certainly surprises Ray, who gives him a wide-eyed look before settling into what can only be described as a pout.

“Aw, c’mon,” he wheedles in a tone that might sound childish if it weren’t for the blatantly sexual glint in his eyes, and the swagger with which he steps into Fraser’s personal space again. He slides his hand up Fraser’s shoulder to cup the back of his neck, and no, there’s nothing childish about the gentle grip of that hand. Nothing casual about it, either. This is as far from Ray’s usual friendly shoulder-pats and mock-punches as streetlight from starlight.

Fraser can’t keep his heart from racing—not without more concentration than he can spare just at the moment, anyway—but he can at least try to keep his desire from showing on his face. As gently as he can, he removes Ray’s hand, only to find the other ( _Dear Lord!_ ) homing in on his shirt buttons. He disentangles his shirt from Ray’s grasp as well, and takes a step backward.

“Ray, please. This—I can’t. You’re not in your right mind.”

He has already explained the situation to Ray several times during the interminable taxi ride to Ray’s apartment. All the while, Ray’s hands roamed over Fraser’s chest in a way that would have been deeply unwelcome coming from anyone else, and as it was, made Fraser flush with embarrassment and less appropriate feelings. Fraser explained it all again as he struggled to get Ray upstairs without either of them losing any garments. By that point, the reminder was almost as much for his own benefit as Ray’s. _You’ve been drugged. Some sort of aphrodisiac. It’s making you feel things you wouldn’t ordinarily feel. You’re not in your right mind._

He can’t tell whether Ray truly comprehends. In any event, he gives every appearance of not caring.

“Let me kiss you, Frase,” he murmurs, closing the distance between them again. “Can I kiss you, please?” His tone is teasing, almost playful, an oddly compelling contrast to the earnest longing in his eyes.

He leans in so close that his nose brushes Fraser’s ear. Fraser is nearly overwhelmed by the distinctive odor of Ray’s sweat and the less-familiar but even more damnably seductive scent of his arousal. But there’s a wrong note to the smell, as well: the bitter/cloying trace of the drug in Ray’s system. Fraser clings to that like a lifeline to keep him from falling into the abyss.

“No, Ray,” he repeats, as firmly as he can. He steps back again. This time, for a wonder, Ray doesn’t follow him.

“Okay, okay,” Ray mutters, more to himself than to Fraser, and then more softly still, just his lips shaping the words, “No means no.”

Fraser’s throat tightens as he watches Ray wrap his arms tightly around himself. He remembers Stella Kowalski telling Ray, _You never crossed the line_ , and wonders whether she ever saw him like this, literally trembling with the effort of holding himself in check.

“Ray—” he starts, not sure what he can possibly say, but Ray’s outburst cuts him off.

“Why _not?_ ” The words are petulant, Ray’s body telegraphs frustration, but Fraser thinks he sees something fragile lurking in his friend’s eyes. Before he can say anything, though, Ray switches tactics, his voice dropping enticingly. “Why don’t you want to?”

“Ray,” Fraser sighs. “This isn’t about what I want.”

And even that is more than he should have admitted. Ray may be under the influence, but apparently hasn’t lost all of his ability to read people.

“You _do_ want to,” he says with an accusing frown that immediately transmutes into a dazzling smile, stealing Fraser’s breath. Ray’s hands reach out eagerly as he steps forward. Panicking, Fraser thrusts out his palms; Ray’s chest bounces against them, the impact sending both Ray and Fraser stumbling back a couple of steps.

Ray stares at him, breathing hard. One hand steals up to caress the spot where Fraser’s hand just touched him even as his face draws into a scowl.

“Fine,” he snaps. “You don’t want me, fine, I get it. Thanks for bringing me home. You can piss off now.”

Fraser knows Ray’s anger is a defense mechanism, but it’s hard not to take it personally. Harder still not to give in to the urge to soothe Ray’s pain with the truth. _No, I do want you, very much._ His overly vivid imagination shows him how Ray’s frown would blossom into a smile again, sweet and shy at first, then turning sultry, hungry, as he reached for Faser and. . .

 _No. No, no, no._ Ray may be in no fit state to think about consequences, but Fraser is. And Fraser will do his duty by Ray, no matter how angry it makes Ray with him. He won’t take advantage of Ray, but he can’t abandon him, either, so he’ll just have to stay the course.

“I can’t leave you by yourself in this condition,” he says.

“Yeah, well, where I’m going, you’re not invited.” Ray flashes him an unfriendly smile. “Sorry, buddy, missed your chance. But the night is young and I’m ready to party. So see you later.”

He heads for the door, but Fraser blocks his way.

Fraser knows all too well that Ray sometimes does frequent the sort of nightclubs where strangers ‘hook up’ for sexual encounters. Ordinarily, he would bite his tongue and remind himself that Ray is a grown man who can take care of himself and that it’s none of Fraser’s business how his friend chooses to spend his evening. But tonight it _is_ his business; tonight Ray _can’t_ make rational decisions.

“It’s late,” Fraser fumbles. “You’re. . .tired. You’re not your best. Stay here.”

“I’m fine, I’m great,” Ray says, trying to brush past Fraser, who is forced to actually put his back against the door to keep Ray from it. “I am the definition of greatness. You, on the other hand, are a pain in the ass. You want to sit home and iron your longjohns, that’s your business.” Doubt flickers across Ray’s face and is quickly replaced with defiance. “Me, I’m gonna find someone who knows how to have fun. Somebody who wants to have fun with me, yeah. . .”

He takes a few rhythmic, swiveling dance steps, his body undulating in time to music only he can hear. One hand slides up over his chest, rucking his T-shirt up to expose his stomach. Fraser’s breath catches despite his good intentions. He watches Ray’s other hand slide down over bare skin and belt buckle to cup the bulge in his jeans. Ray’s lips spread into a lewd and dreamy smile as his eyes drift shut.

 _At least he seems to be distracted from going out and. . .getting into trouble_ , Fraser tells himself, ashamed of watching Ray touch himself like this but apparently not ashamed enough to look away. It would be so easy, just now, to convince himself that he’d be doing Ray a kindness if he reached out and touched him like Ray’s been touching Fraser. Like he’s touching himself.

 _It wouldn’t be a kindness. Not to either of us._ He balls his fists at his sides, but he still doesn’t take his gaze off Ray.

Ray’s eyes pop open and lock onto his. Fraser feels his face flush hot with a confused mixture of shame and yearning and anxiety.

“You sure you don’t want to change your mind, Frase?” Ray rests his palm on Fraser’s shoulder, and Fraser ought to remove it, but he doesn’t. He can feel the heat radiating from Ray’s skin as he leans in closer and slides that hand up the side of Fraser’s throat and into his hair.

“’Cause I can show you a good time, I promise, it’ll be good. I want to make you feel good. You want me to? C’mon, you’re allowed to have a personal life, you’re allowed to have some fun for Christ’s sake. There’s no Mountie vow of chastity, is there?”

Fraser shakes his head.

“No,” he whispers, not sure if he means _No vow of chastity_ or _No, I can’t_ or _No, don’t do this to me._

Ray’s fingers move in his hair, the most delicate of caresses. His other hand is on Fraser’s bicep, not holding, just resting there, and still Fraser hasn’t moved to stop him. Ray’s cheeks are flushed and sweat-damp and his pupils are huge and he’s gazing at Fraser with a combination of hunger and tenderness that wrings Fraser’s heart.

“I want you so much.” Ray’s voice is low and rough. His mouth is so close now that every word is a tickle of warm breath against Fraser’s lips. “You know how much you mean to me. Don’t you? You’re the best thing in my life, Fraser. You, me, this partnership we’ve got going.”

“It means a great deal to me, too, Ray,” says Fraser. “And I don’t want to do anything that might damage our friendship.”

The lines at the corners of Ray’s eyes crinkle; it’s all Fraser can see of his smile this close to. Beautiful.

“It won’t, I promise. C’mon, Frase, sometimes you just got to jump off that cliff. Trust your luck. Trust me.” The whisper is almost a kiss, but Ray doesn’t close the tiny gap between their mouths. Fraser digs his nails into his palms and keeps his eyes open by force of will.

It’s almost possible to imagine that Ray’s desire for him is real, borne of feelings for his partner rather than the simple need for gratification with the nearest available person. Almost, but Fraser knows better. And even if the fantasy were true, that wouldn’t change the fact that Ray is not in control of his own actions at this moment.

“Ray. Please. I can’t.”

“’Course you can. You can do anything you put your mind to. And I really, _really_ want to see what you can do with me. . .what you can do _to_ me. . .what you look like when you lose it. . .I bet that’s really something to see. . .Please, Fraser? Buddy?”

If Ray came on to Stella like this, no wonder she brought him home with her even after their divorce, Fraser thinks dizzily with a rush of sympathy for the former Mrs. Kowalski. Running on hormones alone, Ray is difficult to resist; how much more persuasive, how much more tempting would he be if his seduction attempt were driven by the deep and genuine passion he felt—probably still feels—for his ex-wife?

Swallowing hard, Fraser pushes Ray back as gently as he can.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is hoarse. “I can’t—can’t sleep with you, Ray. Not now. Not like this.”

“Frase, please, I’m dying here. Help me out.”

“Don’t do this,” Fraser pleads. His outward calm is deserting him; he sounds almost as desperate as Ray does.

“It’s not my fault,” Ray insists. “It’s the aphrohistowhatevers, you said so. Please, Fraser. I need something—anything. Just a kiss, even. One kiss? What would be so wrong with that?”

_Nothing. Everything._

Maybe Ray’s right. A kiss is such a little thing; it would please Ray and please Fraser and the consequences wouldn’t be too devastating. A kiss could be explained away later, or brushed aside as trivial. It wouldn’t be trivial to Fraser, of course, but Ray would never have to know that. Their friendship has already survived a punch, surely a single kiss wouldn’t shatter it.

He lets himself teeter on the edge of that fantasy, but only for a moment. He knows perfectly well that the ethics of this situation have little to do with specific physical acts, and everything to do with informed consent and trust and respect. To kiss Ray would be to cross a line, just as surely as a more blatant sexual act would be.

“We’d both regret it,” Fraser tells Ray, but damn it all, he’s regretting the lost opportunity already.

 _It’s not fair!_ rages some dark, honest part of him. _Why should I have to turn down something I want so badly, when Ray’s offering? He isn’t worrying about the consequences, so why should I have to? Why can’t I just take what I want for once?_

But he can’t ignore the truth just because it doesn’t suit him. _Because it would be wrong. Unfair, and hurtful, and in case that’s not sufficient reason to treat your friend as he deserves, let’s remember what happened the last time you put desire above principle, shall we?_

One object lesson was plenty, yes, so Fraser clenches his jaw and stands his ground as Ray reaches for him again, his hot palms cupping Fraser’s face. Fraser prepares to push him away again, but Ray doesn’t lean in yet, he just murmurs,

“I’m a big boy, Frase. A kiss ain’t gonna kill _me._ So how ’bout you speak for yourself? You want a kiss? You want to kiss me? Huh? Do you?”

“No,” Fraser grinds out, and it’s the truth, it _is_. The last thing he wants right now is to shatter his principles and their friendship with a single touch, no matter how good it would feel, no matter how sincere Ray sounds at this moment.

Ray cocks his head to the side in unconscious mimicry—or conscious mockery—of one of Fraser’s own habits.

“I think you do,” he says.

“I’ve said I don’t.”

“Yeah, I heard you. I just don’t believe you.” Ray flashes his teeth in something that isn’t exactly a smile. His thumbs brush tenderly over Fraser’s cheekbones—such a contrast with his mocking expression, as he murmurs, “I think you’re a big. . .fat. . .liar.”

Fraser jerks free of Ray’s grasp, so sharply that he nearly bangs his head on the door behind him.

“You asked me to speak for myself, but now you don’t believe me?” His voice is tight with strain.

Ray seems to hear it as anger: his body tenses and his chin juts forward combatively. At least he shows no sign of spoiling for a physical fight.

“Hey, only fair. It’s not like you believe me, either.”

“I’m not the one whose judgment is chemically impaired,” Fraser points out wearily.

“Wish you were,” Ray mutters.

 _So do I,_ Fraser thinks, but he still has enough self-control not to say so aloud. Instead, he says, in a calm, serious voice that he hopes will make Ray listen, “Why? So you could rape me?”

“What the—Jesus, no!” Ray splutters, sounding for a moment more truly himself than he has all evening. Shock tactics have their effect, it seems, thank God. “Who the hell do you think I am?”

“An honorable man,” says Fraser, looking him in the eyes. “One who would never take advantage of a friend who was vulnerable and unable to think clearly.”

That knocks the wind out of Ray’s sails, more thoroughly than Fraser had expected. His restless body goes abruptly still, like an engine whose power has been cut. He stares at Fraser with an expression that looks less like shock than disgust, his face flushing deep red.

“Fucking lot you know,” he chokes out. Then he turns violently on his heel and dashes to the bathroom. Fraser hears the click of the door locking. Then nothing apart from Ray’s ragged breathing.

After a while, he ventures a soft knock on the door. “Ray?”

No response.

“Ray? Are you all right?”

“Go _away,_ Fraser.” Ray’s voice is thick and harsh.

“Ray, I—”

“Beat it. Scram. Fuck off. Leave me the hell alone.”

Fraser can’t leave. The best he can do to honor Ray’s desire for privacy is retreat to the living room and stand by the window, where the late-night city noises are louder than the soft sounds from the bathroom. But not quite loud enough to drown them out entirely, and Fraser isn’t quite a good enough man—a good enough friend—not to listen to the rasp of Ray’s uneven breathing, laced with irregular groans. Ray sounds injured, and it takes all Fraser’s willpower not to go to him, despite the locked door, to make sure he’s all right. He laces his fingers tightly together, reminding himself that Ray is physically unharmed. Only desperately aroused, and probably relieving his artificially-stimulated desire in the only way Fraser has left open to him. Or possibly crying. Or both.

He stands guard through the night. Now and then he naps on his feet. Twice he stalks silently to the bathroom door to reassure himself with the sound of Ray’s breathing, now soft and regular. He dislikes the idea of Ray sleeping on the tile floor, and wishes he could go in and help him to bed. But of course, even if the door were not locked, he could do no such thing. Even imagining it is. . .not helpful.

Eventually comes the brief lull of almost-quiet shortly before dawn, followed by the early-morning deliveries, garbage trucks, and street sweepers as the artificial light outside warms to pink and gold and finally hazy white. He schools himself to further patience, knowing Ray is not a morning person at the best of times, even without an unknown drug playing havoc with his metabolism. He tries not to dwell on the possibilities of what will happen when Ray does wake, but the alternative seems to be dwelling on memories of last night—of Ray’s seductive smile and the heat of his touch and the way his expressive body signaled _sex_ with every movement—which is even worse.

The sound of the shower running—finally!—moves Fraser to action. He goes into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. He considers scrambling some eggs, but he has no idea what the after-effects of the drug are likely to do to Ray’s appetite. In any case, making breakfast would be presumptuous. Coffee is quick.

As far as Fraser knows, Ray habitually takes leisurely showers, and Fraser might have predicted that he would be slower than usual this morning, but the water shuts off before the coffee has quite finished brewing. Fraser hears the bathroom and bedroom doors bang, and Ray appears shortly thereafter, barefoot in jeans and a T-shirt, with his damp hair lying flat on his forehead and his arms crossed over his chest. He gives Fraser a look that seems more defeated than hostile. It reminds Fraser, sickeningly, of a prisoner who has given up resisting arrest.

“The coffee’s almost ready,” Fraser offers.

Ray grunts acknowledgement, or possibly thanks.

“Here.” Fraser presses a glass of water into Ray’s hand. “Drink this while you’re waiting. You’ll—”

“Thank you later, yeah, I know.” Ray turns away to lean on the counter as he drains the glass. Neither of them says anything more until the coffee’s ready.

Ray doesn’t look up as Fraser sets a mug in front of him, but he asks in a soft, flat voice, “Why are you still here, Fraser?”

Fraser’s not sure what sort of answer Ray is looking for.

“I had to make sure you were all right,” he says. It’s the truth, though not the whole truth. In response, Ray gives an ironic snort.

“Yeah, I’m fine, I’m not going to run out and molest anybody. You don’t got to babysit me any more.”

Ray’s right: he’s clearly recovered from the effects of the drug, and he’s equally clearly feeling physically well enough not to need caretaking. And since he doesn’t want Fraser in his apartment, it’s time for Fraser to leave. But he simply can’t. Not with things as they stand.

“Ray, I’m sorry.” He takes a breath, straightens his spine, and looks straight at Ray, whose eyes are still on his coffee mug. “It was irresponsible of me to bring you here. I should have taken you to the hospital.”

Ray blinks up at him like that idea had never occurred to him. Then his mouth twists ruefully.

“Yeah, probably would’ve been smart,” he sighs. “Can’t blame you, though. Probably would have done the same in your place.”

Fraser tries to push away the vivid images that spring to mind of himself as desperate and uninhibited as Ray was last night, deaf to everything but the siren song of desire. Putting his hands on Ray, breathing on his skin, crowding him, coaxing him, touching him. . .

“It was an unforgivable error on my part,” he says, grateful that his voice stays steady. “But I truly am sorry.”

Ray shrugs, looking down again. “You and me both.”

But before Fraser can reply, Ray lifts his eyes to meet Fraser’s and says, “No, look, you were looking out for me. Didn’t want me to make a fool out of myself in public. You were trying to do the right thing, I know that.”

“Do you?” Fraser asks quietly. “I’m not sure I was.”

“Oh, give me a break!” Ray’s cup bangs onto the counter as he launches to his feet with enough force that Fraser takes an involuntary step back. “You always do the right thing, that’s what you do.”

“I. . .I’m sorry.” Fraser doesn’t know what else to say. It’s true, but it’s not enough.

Ray leans back against the counter with a sigh. The anger seems to drain out of him as suddenly as it arose. He pinches the bridge of his nose, massaging it with tiny circles of thumb and forefinger.

“You did the right thing,” he says firmly, though he sounds anything but happy about it. “You had my back, you kept me from. . . and. . .and I’m an asshole, I acted like an asshole last night, and I’m sorry you had to. . .I’m just sorry, okay?”

Fraser nods, but Ray isn’t looking at him.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Fraser offers.

Ray gives a bitter snort.

“I meant what I said last night,” Fraser tells him. “You acted honorably under difficult circumstances.”

Ray shakes his head. “Because you stopped me.”

“Because you let me stop you,” Fraser corrects him.

Ray’s jaw works silently. After a moment he gives a jerky nod—meant as acceptance, Fraser thinks, but Ray’s eyes stay fixed unhappily on his hands.

“You shouldn’t’ve had to.”

“You weren’t in your right mind,” says Fraser gently. “You shouldn’t blame yourself for—”

“Yeah, and maybe I could’ve kept my hands to myself if I’d tried, what do you know about it?” Ray snaps. His arms cross defensively over his chest.

“Ray—” Fraser begins.

“If it had been you,” Ray cuts him off. “If you’d been the one. I don’t know what I would have—if I could have—”

“You would have taken care of me,” Fraser assures him, but this only draws a burst of harsh laughter from Ray.

“Yeah, one way or the other.”

When Fraser lays his hand on Ray’s shoulder, Ray flinches, though he doesn’t pull away. He still won’t look at Fraser.

“I wished it,” he says, so softly Fraser’s not certain he’s heard correctly until Ray goes on, “Last night. I wished you were the one who was drugged, so you’d. . .” He shrugs, then mumbles, “So you’d know how I feel.”

“It’s all right,” Fraser tells him. “You’re not to blame for—”

“I wished it,” Ray repeats fiercely, like he’s issuing some sort of challenge. “After—in the bathroom—I thought about it, about _you,_ wanting me like. . .I pretended it was you, while I. . .”

Heat floods Fraser’s body; he turns his face away to hide the flush he knows must be visible. A bad mistake on his part: Ray twists out from under his hand, hunching defensively even as Fraser looks back at him.

“Sorry,” Ray whispers, looking as miserable as Fraser’s ever seen him.

Fraser is struck by the memory of Ray punching him in the mouth, on a sunny day by the lake, both of them dripping with dirty water. He understands, now, viscerally, why Ray insisted on being hit in return. It wasn’t about justice, as Fraser had assumed at the time. Not an eye for an eye, two wrongs to make a right. It was about Ray deliberately making himself vulnerable to Fraser, to even the emotional playing field in the only way he knew how.

Here, now, Ray feels humiliated by his drug-induced behavior last night, which Fraser witnessed. His confession of further weakness—and, in his own eyes, wrong-doing—leaves him at a further disadvantage. Fraser holds all the cards, here, so the only way to mitigate the power imbalance is to meet Ray’s vulnerability with a demonstration of his own.

“Ray.” His voice sounds odd to his own ears. To Ray’s too, apparently, because his eyes jump sharply up to Fraser’s face. Fraser clears his throat and forges ahead.

“The only thing that upset me about your behavior last night was that you weren’t in your right mind when you. . .well. Under any other circumstances, if you’d made me such an offer. . .I would have gladly accepted.”

It was meant as a way to even the scales, to show throat and offer reassurance at the same time. But Ray’s eyes go wide with more than simple shock. . . _So you’d know how I feel,_ he said, Fraser remembers. Not _felt,_ but _feel._

Fraser suddenly feels as though he’s swallowed a live frog. His face burns, but this time, he forces himself not to flinch from Ray’s gaze.

“Gladly?” Ray asks. His voice wobbles a little, and Fraser finds he has to clear his own throat again before he can reply.

“Eagerly.”

Ray’s smile is just as Fraser imagined it last night: startled and sweet, still tentative, not yet blossoming fully, but oh, it will, Ray’s face will shine, brilliant and sultry, for _him._

Ray reaches towards Fraser but hesitates, his hand hovering in the space between them.

“Do you. . . ?” Ray stammers. “Can I. . . ?”

Fraser takes Ray’s outstretched hand in his own and brings it up to cradle the back of his neck.

“Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> The unofficial title of this story is "Just Say No To Sex Pollen." 
> 
> I'm quite fond of the sex pollen/under the influence trope, but it's one of those guilty pleasures based on the characters acting less responsible than one could wish in real life. :) Or else it ends up being interestingly about consent issues, as this one is. Or both.


End file.
